Will shouted, “Stay in there!” as he ran onward. Ahead of him were empty roads and zero cover. But that didn’t matter, because he knew he could outpace the three remaining cops and stay beyond the limited range of their shotguns and pistols. All he had to do was keep running.
Two hundred yards later, the roads converged into a two-lane bridge that took drivers into Maine. Will was halfway across the bridge when he heard a police siren and a vehicle approaching fast from behind him. He spun around and saw a cop car with three cops inside, racing toward the bridge.
He stood no chance of reaching the end of the bridge before the cruiser.
Kneeling down, he held his pistol in two hands, and was motionless as he took aim.
The vehicle was one hundred yards away, halfway between him and the border-check booths.
He fired three shots into the car’s engine block and two into the front left tire. The vehicle swerved left and shuddered to a halt as Will got to his feet and bolted along the bridge while zigzagging to make himself a difficult target.
Behind him, pistol shots: some rounds raced through the air close to him, others struck the tarmac close to his feet.
But the cops were too far behind him.
He reached the end of the bridge, sprinted off the road, and entered the United States.
Ellie walked at an even pace, away from the archive. What mattered now was getting away from Langley, changing out of the disguise, and praying that Will Cochrane made contact with her.
She entered an elevator that was traveling to the ground floor, and felt her heart miss a beat. Three men were in the elevator.
Jellicoe.
Sheridan.
Parker.
They were talking in hushed tones, but immediately fell silent when she stepped into the elevator.
She turned her back to the men.
“Ma’am, you want the ground floor?” The voice belonged to Parker.
Ellie nodded, and replied with an accent that wasn’t hers, “Yes please, sir.”
She hoped she was conveying the feeling of unease that many low-ranking officers have when they inadvertently find themselves in the presence of senior management.
“Heading home already?”
God, why did Director Parker have to be so darn sociable? “Yes sir. I was on the night shift.”
Parker laughed. “Glad those days are long behind me. But we appreciate your work. What’s your name, lady?”
She glanced back, just for a split second and only showing a fraction of her face, knowing the risk in doing so but also knowing that just staring ahead would be odd. “Paula Jones.”
“Not seen you around here before.”
“It’s my first week. I’m in archives.”
“Didn’t know archives pulled night shifts.”
“We’re doing a major refiling exercise. It’s a round-the-clock job.”
“Don’t envy you.”
“It’s a job, sir. I’m grateful.” The doors opened at the ground floor. Ellie stepped out and walked toward the security gates in the lobby. At every moment as she crossed the large marble foyer, she expected Parker to shout out something like, “Ellie Hallowes — that’s far enough!” But she heard no such thing as she swiped Helen’s ID through the turnstile gate’s security panel and exited the CIA headquarters.
Outside it was bitterly cold, with bright sunshine causing her to squint and her eyes to hurt. She kept walking toward a lot where her rental was parked, desperate to get as far away from here as possible.
And desperate to tell Will Cochrane that Ferryman was a high-ranking Russian SVR officer named Gregori Shonin who’d been recruited by the CIA in Prague in 2005.
Shonin worked for Antaeus and had direct access to the spymaster’s secrets. Antaeus’s biggest secret of all was that he was ahead of the West in tracking Cobalt and had ascertained that the terrorist financier was going to be in Afghanistan in two weeks’ time. Soon, Ferryman would learn from Antaeus the exact time and location of Cobalt’s meeting, at which point he would relay this intel to the CIA so that it could blow Cobalt into pieces.
Ferryman was of incalculable value because of his access to Antaeus.
And Antaeus had to be kept alive because without him the Agency couldn’t get to Cobalt.
At face value, there was now no doubt in Ellie’s mind that Project Ferryman was infinitely more important than her life, and that Will Cochrane had been wholly wrong to break Ferryman protocols in Norway.
But something wasn’t right.
Herald had told her that there was a Russian mole right at the top of the Agency. Even if that mole wasn’t privy to the identity of Ferryman, he’d certainly know of Ferryman and that he had a direct line to Antaeus, whose insight was vital to killing Cobalt.
The mole would have told Antaeus that the Agency had access to his secrets.
And somebody as clever and ruthless as Antaeus would have identified Ferryman and killed him by now.
But Ferryman was still alive and working alongside Antaeus.
And that meant one thing: that Antaeus had his own agenda.
The spymaster was a puppeteer with his hand hovering over the Agency, holding strings tied to Langley so strong that he could make it move like a deaf, dumb, and blind doll.
Simply put, he had the United States’ national security apparatus by the balls.
PART III
TWENTY-THREE
Retired major Dickie Mountjoy tried not to wince as he got out of his armchair in his small apartment in West Square. Damn limbs were getting old, but that didn’t mean he had to gripe about it or show others that he was no longer the army officer who could march for hours in front of Her Majesty and the tourists in Horse Guards Parade. He opened the door and found his neighbors Phoebe and David there. Phoebe was dressed to kill, meaning no doubt she was going out for the evening to watch a middleweight boxing match or attend one of her art gallery’s boozy functions. David, on the other hand, was wearing a food-stained T-shirt over his flabby torso, and jeans that had baking flour all over them. For the life of him, Dickie never understood why the mortician spent so much time cooking, considering that he was recently divorced and had no one else in his life.
“What d’ya want?”
Phoebe and David exchanged bemused glances.
“Your notes under our doors. You said you wanted to see us. This evening.” Phoebe wagged a finger. “You’re not getting all senile on us, are you, darling?”
“No, and do I look like a darling to you?”
Phoebe looked mischievous and replied in a sultry voice, “I think deep down you’re an utter darling.”
Dickie huffed. “That means you know the square root of bugger-all about me. All right, come in.”
“Oooh. Nice Christmas tree.” Phoebe sat in Dickie’s favorite armchair, which annoyed the bejesus out of him, and crossed her legs. “Got any bubbly?”
“Scotch, port, or ale. I’ve no reason to keep lady drinks in here.”
“Oh well. Scotch it is.”
Dickie poured three drinks, without bothering to ask David if he wanted one. The retiree thrust the Scotch at the mortician. “Here. Might cut through some of that waistline, and get yer ticker pumping. You think age is on your side, but carry on eating for a regiment and you’ll end up on one of your mortuary slabs.”
David was unsure what to say, and perched his large frame on the end of the sofa. This also annoyed Dickie because it meant he had to sit next to him, there being no other empty seat.
“You workin’ at a brothel tonight? You look and smell like a tart.”
Phoebe was unflustered by the comment. “Have you been to many brothels, Dickie?”